


the chanel boots? yeah, i am.

by stillmadaboutpetra



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Boot Worship, Dom/sub Undertones, Foot Jobs, Leather Kink, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, also boot mockery, just in case thats ur nono, kinda ??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25575577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/pseuds/stillmadaboutpetra
Summary: Jaskier buys new boots.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 48
Kudos: 298





	the chanel boots? yeah, i am.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/gifts).



> uh borderline crack pwp based off a post i sent to inber on tumblr...NOT related to my witcher smut series lol
> 
> https://inber.tumblr.com/post/624742702543716352/the-fic-ass-fic

The bows that hold Jaskier’s breeches up could be, in Geralt’s opinion, undone by a strong breeze. They’re often silky ribbons, sometimes sturdy leather ties, and the knot has advanced to withstand an errant tug or two - necessitated by Geralt’s passing amusement in undoing the tie when Jaskier wasn’t paying attention and laughing at his companion’s fumbling when, two steps into his next bawdy turn around a room, his pants were about to fall down to his ankles. 

Hell, once the bow had caught on a hook in an iron gate and Jaskier had torn it completely free. 

“Bows are not practical,” Geralt advised, forced to reckon with Jaskier’s naked thighs in the middle of a street. 

It’s not until they’re gone that Geralt misses the little bows. Jaskier’s found pants that taper and are held secure by buttons, just like Geralt’s own. 

The buttons last approximately  _ two _ ill-advised fornications. 

Jaskier falls his way out of a window, holding his pants up with one hand and his doublet in the other, buttons (expensive little bastards!) torn from their threading and left behind in both his eagerness to get his pants off, and then shortly thereafter, to get the hell out of dodge.

“Bows are easier,” Jaskier corrects. “It is the ease at which one undoes them and redoes them that is their grace, not the strength of the knot.”

“It’s a wonder you wear smallclothes at all.”

“I have considered the alternative,  _ trust me Geralt, _ but after much study into the matter, I’ve retained some modesty.”

Geralt didn’t know that was the kind of thing one studied, but all right then. Jaskier was the one with a degree in the Arts and Science and General Assery. Best leaves such matters to the learned man.

Of course, when the dynamic of their relationship changes, and Geralt is the one plucking those bows apart, just as deftly as he will pluck loose the knot of Jaskier’s pleasure - well, yes, something can be said about the grace of a quick disrobing indeed. They are easy, convenient little things. Not everything convenient is practical, but they’ve learned to make do with small gifts.

Geralt even finds himself enjoying retying the bow until Jaskier is once more primly dressed. Jaskier agrees that there’s a poetic elegance to it: done and undone by Geralt. 

And if it happens that Geralt keeps up his habit of pulling the thread that keeps Jaskier decent - and Jaskier will feel the fabric of his breeches begin to slip along his delicious hips and he’ll press his ass into Geralt’s ready hands and say, “darling, would you mind,” and Geralt is besieged by the great task of pulling the chord or ribbon or once, wildly, a thin chain, back into place - Jaskier fully knowing it was Geralt to begin with but not opposed to such satyr-like mischievousness from his rather upright friend - well! Bows come undone so easily. 

But the boots?

“What the fuck are you wearing?”

“You don’t like them? It’s all the rage on the Western coast.” Jasker looks down at himself, turning on the balls of his feel, lifting his heels - heels! - in a spritely fashion. He takes two or four or ten dainty steps about the room, admiring the cheery click of noise he makes, the taught security of the soft leather that hugs him like water all the way up his thighs only to run soft and buttery as the leather cuff widens to accommodate his muscle and - and be strung up around him by a frankly obscene leather garter belt that sits high on his waist, cinched in, straps running down to cup and fondle around the curve of his ass and secure the boots in their high intended shape.

The annoying fuck even lifts up his trim doublet jacket to show off a little more, bleeding the smell of vanity and pride, as if his jacket even remotely pretended to obscure anything, cut so high a blind man would still be able to see the narrowing give of his waist, the flair of his hips, the slope of his ass at it met his thighs - really, he dressed to distraction. Jaskier is the embodiment of distraction. 

“You can’t wear those.”

“I paid a pretty penny for these, I shall wear them all my days.”

“You’ll twist an ankle in minutes trying to walk a road with me. That leather will spoil in the rain. Your feet will ache. I can think of a hundred complaints you’ll hawk about for the rest of  _ my  _ days.”

“Yes, but they're divine, are they not? This lambskin - it’s like butter.” He stretches his leg in offering with a gentleman’s bow, bending to run his hand up the length of his limb. The sound of skin on leather  _ purrs _ . “Touch it, Geralt, and fall to its charms as I have.”

“I’ve touched lambskin plenty in my life.” Geralt crosses his arms to smother the desire to do just that. “You’re a fool for buying a pair of boots that won’t stay up on their own.”

Jaskier’s self-admiring hands spring to the garters that tie into the eyelets at the boot’s cuff.

“Not so different from the laces on yours.” His hands go up, trailing the taught leather lead to the corsetted garter riding his hips. His fingers fan over the darkened leather, the pink of his knuckles all the more bright for the contrast, his fingers longer as they extend to stroke that leather there. Geralt clenches his hands and tucks his fists near to his armpits in restraint.

“I like it. And I’ll bring some flair to this dingy little town. The coastal courts have better minds for the indulgent inspirations of fashion than these landlocked run-off towns.”

And that’s that. The boots, and their ridiculous gartered accompaniment, stay.

Jaskier has the good sense to not attempt to wear them while they travel, but should they find a decent place to stay and the bard a set to play, the boots are on, the straps are tight, and the doublets only seem to grow shorter to show off the waist belt garter that makes it very clear how often Jaskier cocks his hips and how he sways and the body that lay beneath.

That the coinflow into the bard’s purse increases is not a coincidence. 

And Geralt? Well. He’s allowed to touch. He’s invited to touch. But there’s something obscene about touching Jaskier when he’s wearing those boots and garter. There’s no little bow to pluck, no tease of an unwind. Geralt would have to snap the leather from him. If he wanted a peak at flesh, how would he go about it? If he wanted to give a pat to Jaskier’s rump, he’d be inclined to slip his hand under the leather strap that bows itself around the curve of Jaskier’s ass and feel the tension that holds him all together. 

The temptation is so great that Geralt resists as a pickpocket might abstain from taking a particularly overripened purse that hangs a bit too precariously from a belt, too sure it’s a trap. Or the animal that has grown wise about the pile of suspicious fruits.

  
  


And then: it gets hot.

It gets hot, and their room this evening is even hotter. Windowless, stuffy; the humidity alone makes the walls weep with sweat. The beer is tepid on their tongues.

Jaskier plays well enough although he begins to fret when sweat falls to his strings from the soaked fringe of his hair and the wood threatens to warp on him with each breath puffed. Geralt has long since abandoned the common space of the inn, resigned to laying on the floor nearly naked, thinking it would almost be better to be eaten by bugs outside than sequestered amongst the smell of so many people stagnating.

“Fucking hell,” is Jaskier’s bright greeting as he returns to the room. The doublet jacket flies off immediately. “We should have camped outside and slept in a stream for the day.”

Geralt grunts his agreement. He’s pretty sure he said as much and Jaskier insisted civilization was a better place to melt to death in. Shows what an education does for a man’s senses of reason.

“Should we order a tub? I’ll drown myself in it tonight.” Jaskier fans himself fruitlessly with the neck of his plunging shirt before that too drives him mad and then he’s struggling out of it, tossing it aside, left in his hairy naked glory.

With the boots and the garter. 

Oh sure, there’s a pair of pants still keeping the scene from diverting too much. But now Geralt’s forced to reckon with Jaskier, sweating, flushed, panting, pushing his matted hair from his eyes - in his little stupid boots with a waist that is not as small as it looks right now but looks like it might fit in Geralt’s hands as neatly as a sword hilt.

That pile of fruit’s looking pretty good right about now, even if Geralt knows there’s a snare trap waiting for him. 

“Take your pants off.

“I am,” Jaskier laughs, undoing the garter without any thought. He lets it drop, cords still tied to the boots, and begins to shimmy his way out of his boots, hopping on one precarious heeled foot until he plops down onto the bed to wrestle himself free. 

Geralt’s nose wrinkles and he huffs. “You smell.”

  
  


Jaskier pushes up his breech hem to peel off his socks. He throws one at Geralt who bats it away before it lands on his face.

“I have no doubt, dear witcher.” He wiggles his toes with relief, mouth turning down. “Bloody hell. Look at my poor swollen feet. I’m ordering a bath of the coldest water they can manage.”

When Jaskier is finally boldly nude in the room, stepping out of even his small things, and the smell of him - human man, sweat, clove - bathes the entire room in a pungent claiming - then Geralt acts. He rolls from his lackadaisical lounge on the floor to kneel at Jaskier’s feet where he sits on the bed.

“I told you those boots would hurt you.” He squeezes one of Jaskier’s poor little feet in his hand, feeling the hot skin, the puffiness. He’ll be complaining tomorrow even when he’s in his proper walking boots. 

“A little hurt never killed me.” Jaskier cards his fingers through Geralt’s hair, pushing back silver strands that have curled with the humidity, cling like kisses around his ear and neck. Geralt rubs his foot, thumb into the arch, and Jaskier gathers Geralt’s mane in his hands and ties it up atop his head in a curled bun. Though the air is not cool, it’s a great relief to have the weight of his hair suddenly free from his neck. Geralt drops his head to Jaskier’s naked thigh, mouthing at the salty taste of his flesh, slides a finger between his big toe and the next to stretch the tight webbing. Jaskier hums and tickles his fingers up the spine of Geralt’s neck. “After a bath, I’ll braid this up for you, what do you say? You’ll feel better.”

“It itches when it’s up.”

“I’ll brush it out every night and braid it again.”

“Fine.” Jaskier’s cock is ripe and Geralt’s mouth waters immediately at the first lick. He presses open the flinch of Jaskier’s thighs. “Put the boots back on.”

There’s a confused moan. “Huh?”

“And the garter.”

A laugh and a tug on the baby hairs wisping and delicate at the base of his skull. “You really can’t make up your mind about what you like, hm?”

Geralt leans out of the small tease and swallows Jaskier’s plumping cock. The taste runs sharp as blades in his mouth, but Geralt knows how that goes, and with a sigh, Jaskier’s skin blurs to butter and velvet in his mouth. Geralt has to swallow hard around him so as not to dribble the spit that rushes to fill his mouth at the taste of Jaskier.

“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier sighs, dropping backwards on the bed, thighs splayed out over Geralt’s shoulders. “You’re a filthy man, Geralt.”

Geralt pays mind to Jaskier’s pungent sac next. “I know what I like. Put those useless boots on.”

And then he sits back on his heels, expectant, Jaskier’s knees still hooked over his shoulders. There’s a heavy sigh from the bed; Geralt can’t see Jaskier’s face; a hand lifts.

“On one hand: it’s hot as balls.”

A second hand lifts.

“On the other hand: sex.”

Jaskier weighs his options. He drops the first hand.    
  


“Sex it is.”

Geralt hums. Well. At least he’s able to beat the heat in this battle of wills.

Jaskier shimmies himself free of his repose over Geralt’s wide shoulders and fetches the requested vestments. He forgoes the socks, naked foot then naked leg disappearing into the tall burnt dark leather. The tops sag into folds around his knees until he steps into the garter and draws it up. 

“There, you beast, satisfied?”

“Nearly.” 

  
The front garters run perfectly down his thighs, the bands framing Jaskier’s groin splendidly. When he wears pants, it has the habit of drawing the fabric tight so that one can easily see where his cock and balls rest as sure as if they’d been tucked into a codpiece. 

Geralt pulls Jaskier in by his hips, kissing the fat curve of his cock before turning the man slowly and nipping his bottom right where a strap of leather runs taut over his skin. He gets a meep for that and then, snapping the leather lightly, a startled “hey!” that he laughs over. 

“Impractical,” he chides, tracing his finger up the seam of Jaskier’s ass to the buckle of the garter. It’s easy work to pull the straps and tighten it around Jaskier. One, two, three notches, until the leather starts to pinch. Jaskier shudders. 

“They seem a good investment right now,” he protests with a strain in his voice. Geralt nibbles at his ass a moment more before slowly turning Jaskier around again to greet the sight of him fantastically hard.

Geralt’s been careful not to touch the boots themselves. 

Now though, now he gives; he ignores Jaskier’s eager press of hips towards his face and instead meets the man’s eyes with lazy antagonizing pleasure as he finally rests his palms on Jaskier’s calves.

The leather’s beyond supple, thin and natural and as indulgent a texture as the head of Jaskier’s cock. 

“Hmm, divine.”

“You haven’t the right to tease me right now, Witcher.” Jaskier cups the side of Geralt’s face and presses a thumb into the bolt of his jaw in request. Geralt lets his mouth drop open but not too wide so that, when Jaskier feeds him his cock, the skin scrapes meanly between his teeth before it can rest on his tongue and kiss the back of his throat. Geralt moans for it, groping his hands up the back of Jaskier’s thighs, following the seam of stitching that holds the boots together until his fingers meet Jaskier’s skin. He stays them there. 

“ don’t want these boots stained, mind you.” Jaskier runs his thumb along the underside of Geralt’s lip then up to hook around his bottom teeth and urge his mouth open wider. “So don’t make a mess.”

Jaskier presses in, body going tight with a single sharp shiver that Geralt squeezes. He runs his hands back down the smooth leather as Jaskier fills his mouth. Again, Geralt has to swallow, eyes falling shut. Jaskier rocks into him lazily, petting the skin behind his ear with fond approval. When Geralt’s hands wind upwards, he wicks away sweat crawling down Jaskier’s thighs and roams his touch further up to squeeze Jaskier’s ass and snap the leather bands of the garter again.

Jackier’s cock hits the back of his throat and plunges down as he gives a startled moan at the sting and the suction.

Geralt grips the bands like an anchor as Jaskier rides his face for a suffocating second before easing back with a harsh noise, cock almost leaving Geralt’s mouth entirely if he didn’t chase after it, cradling the head on his tongue.

“I can’t tell if you’re being cruel or kind, Geralt,” Jaskier slurs, petting a thumb over his cheekbone. Geralt closes his eyes again with the comfort before letting Jaskier’s cock drop heavily from his mouth with a trail of spit and precum. Or would, if not for Jaskier’s quicksilver hands: he grabs himself and presses back to Geralt’s lips, cock as hot as a brand as it touches his slick mouth, smearing. “Uh-uh. What did I say about messes?”

If Geralt wasn’t already hard, Jaskier’s delicate demand would have done the trick.

Geralt sucks him clean, licks him until there’s nothing left to so much as dampen his thigh. Jaskier hums his approval, tapping the plummy head of his cock once, twice, against Geralt’s tongue before easing his hips back.    
  
“I want to fuck you,” Geralt growls, holding Jaskier in place with hands on his ass.

“In the boots?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

Geralt’s not expecting the denial and whines an annoyance before he can stop it. Jaskier only pats his cheek.

“These were very expensive and I won’t have them ruined.”

“You like the boots more than you like my cock?” Geralt bares his teeth in jest. Again, he’s not expecting the denial.

“Ten times more, I’d say! Oh, don’t pout. I know for a fact you’d come on these the moment you could just to torment me with a stain. No, I won’t have it, Geralt.”

He’s right of course. Geralt wants to come on the leather. He wantess to fuck his cock against Jaskier’s leg. He wants to squeeze the cinch of the garter belt around Jaskier’s waist, squeeze him so tight Geralt can jerk himself off inside Jaskier’s guts while he fucks him and watches Jaskier’s cock bounce prettily between straps of leather, feel that soft lambskin wrapped around his waist, thrown over his shoulder, feel the heel of the boots kicking his back to keep him fucking at the tempo that ground Jaskier to screams.

  
  
  


“I’ll-” Geralt frowns up at him, straining in his smallclothes as his thoughts run wild, “I’ll buy you new ones.”

Jaskier laughs again, delighted. He rocks forward and lets Geralt catch him in his mouth once more, only to pull back, pressing his ass, the leather, into Geralt’s squeezing hands.

“I like these ones.”

_ “Jaskier _ .” Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s thighs, palms the leather, presses in with a hard nip and kiss at the crook of his hip. His beseechments are met harshly; Geralt cuts off with a sharp gasping groan as Jaskier presses the toe of the boot against Geralt’s cock, nudging down with sharp accuracy to push at his balls.  _ “Fuck _ . _ ” _

“I’ll give you this, Geralt, hmm? Don’t spill while you suck, I won’t have drips. If you spill on my foot, I’ll have you lick the sole sparkling.”

The snare trap.

“Fuck,” he tries again, strangled by the premise. He ruts up against the resistance of hard leather, the metal brace along the toe of the boot. Jaskier holds onto his shoulders for balance so Geralt doesn’t send him stumbling. 

“Does that satisfy you?” Jaskier prods, brushing his hands up the back of Geralt’s naked neck. 

“Yeah.”

“ _ Divine.”  _

  
  


There are no bows. There are no simple knots. There is no plucking of strings, no ease. Geralt wraps his hands around leather and flesh. He holds Jaskier by his ankle, by the top of his foot, guiding him for his rut even as he urges Jaskier’s rhythm by a fisted hand in the garter, fingers caught against Jaskier’s hipbone, tugging him into his throat again and again and again. 

Sweat runs down his neck. Sweat runs down Jaskier’s thighs. When Jaskier comes in his mouth, and Geralt does his best to keep not a drop from spilling, it shouldn’t be possible for anything to feel like heat anymore but it does; Geralt moans as his mouth fills up with the scorch of Jaskier’s pleasure, something set to boil. Jaskier shudders, legs going wobbly - but Geralt is there, holding him up as sure as his garter holds up his cursed boots. 

“Come on, dearest, come on now, your turn,” Jaskier gasps, shifting his foot side to side, pressing harder. 

Geralt ducks his head, holds onto Jaskier’s foot and ankle, grinding through the friction pain and too-hardness of the boot sole, strained and on edge, until Jaskier finally, mercifully, jerks Geralt’s face forward by a hand in his hair and presses it, sweating, to the leather on his thigh. Geralt licks his tongue up the lambskin in a blind fervor, biting into it, biting hard enough he hears the leather squeak and his teeth find Jaskier’s skin beneath. There’s a sharp cry for Jaskier, the hand in his hair twists, the foot on his cock grinds down - and Geralt comes.

The whole affair robs them both of their energy, sucked as dry as if they’d been bleached out under the sun. Jaskier collapses over Geralt, and Geralt takes both their weights to the floor. It’s disgusting and only just bearable from the hazy glow of orgasm. 

Jaskier’s the first to sit up, kissing Geralt. “Well now. See? Fashion has its perks.”

“Hmm.” Geralt holds him a minute longer until Jaskier starts to fidget and whine, skin itching with sweat. Geralt’s the one with come in his smalls, so if anyone’s going to complain, it should be him. He’s a content puddle as it is. 

Jaskier rolls off of him and unbuckles the garter, taking a deep breath at the release of pressure around his hips. There are indents that Geralt will suck on later.

Then, he starts to roll the boots down. Somewhere just below his calves, where they’re shapely and tight over his leg, he stops. Makes a noise. Fumbles. Rolls sideways. Kicks the ground. Rolls over again.

“Geralt.” He sticks his foot Geralt’s way. “Pull these off for me.”

Geralt tries. All he ends up doing is dragging Jaskier along the floor.

“They’re stuck.”

“No,” Jaskier hisses, sitting up and wrestling with the boot. “They just need - I just need -”

“They’re stuck.”

“No!” Jaskier stares at his feet, face pinched. He can feel how swollen his foot is in them, the tightness of the boot. Having foregone socks to ease the way of release, he’s trapped his poor feet. 

“Are you going to cry?”

“No,” Jaskier sniffles, staring forlornly at his feet. “Geralt, fix it.”

Sighing deeply, Geralt pulls Jaskier’s foot into his lap, turning it side to side. “I can cut-”

“No!”

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier bites his lip, at a loss.

Geralt pats his foot conciliatorily. Even he doesn't want to do what he knows must be done.“If we cut the seam up the back, we can have it resewn next time we’re somewhere with a decent tailor.”

When Geralt gets a knife, Jaskier covers his eyes with both hands. “I can’t look, Geralt. Oh, cut the seam cleanly.”

“Next time, Jaskier, buy boots with laces and bows.” Bows are so much easier. Then he cuts.


End file.
